Anxiety, Culture

The Geritol Gang

folgrWhile at the place where much of my life unfolds, Safeway, I learned something interesting about Hawaii youth. Don’t worry this has nothing to do with boy’s peeing. The cashier told me that I had just missed all the excitement. He went on to explain that a bunch of kids ran out of the store in an attempted robbery. I wasn’t impressed. He shared with me the cell phone pic of the kids being apprehended in the parking lot. Still not impressed.

However, he then enlarged one of the pics detailing the booty that these juvenile delinquents stole and I was shocked…at the lameness.  For immediate barbecue and consumption they stole meat. They also stole alcohol in order to sell to liquor shops. OK, fine, this is getting a bit interesting. In addition to the meat and booze, they steal Folgers Coffee and Tide Pods. What the fuck? Who steals laundry detergent and coffee? My brain can’t even wrap itself around the pods, but the guy on-line behind me chimed in and said, “Yep, Tide is a big seller out there. People want the Tide.” The coffee makes the least amount of sense to me because we are in Hawaii where Kona coffee is the big draw. Maybe that’s just for tourists and the locals prefer Folgers?

PATROn the two-minute drive home, I realized the items I would have stolen as a young teenager would be vastly different from the items I would steal as I approach 50-years-of age. The younger me would have stolen panty hose, because if I lived on the mainland and worked in New York City, this would have made perfect sense. I would have stolen several pairs of tweezers, because I have thick eyebrows and a uni-brow is never in style. Makeup…a shitload of costly make up. Us females are basically paying for the packaging of this stuff anyway. Mine as well steal a bit to make up for the difference.


As an old coot, I would steal batteries for my….use your imagination. Maxi-pads for my Aunt Flow. Tylenol for both my Aunt Flow and the headaches that usually accompany the phone calls made to family. Tweezers because a uni-brow is still not in style and as my memory deteriorates I lose them constantly. Ear plugs for my ears which get more sensitive yearly to the sounds of outdoor life which annoy me; kids playing basketball, dogs barking non-stop, sirens of any sort and my least favorite sound of all time – people schlepping their plastic garbage bins up and down their driveways. Our driveways are only a few feet in length. What are these people doing with their garbage? I swear it sounds as if they are square dancing with those damn garbage pins.

When my ‘want to steal’ list includes Tylenol and maxi-pads and no longer contains make up and panty hose, it might be time to admit I’m old as dirt.







Is it Really Better to have Loved & Lost?

While dealing with a bit of heartache, I was thinking of the quote “Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”
LORDAlfred Lord Tennyson authored this little nugget and contrary to popular belief it was never meant to refer to romance. It was the result of his best friend and classmate passing away at age 22.

Many people make the mistake of attributing this quote to Shakespeare. I can only assume the possibility exists that many broken-hearted people are walking around quoting the Lord to make themselves feel better. However, the reality is their soul is crushed and the only reason they are not taking a golf club to their significant others head is because of this misunderstood piece of wisdom.

Regardless of why Tennyson penned this quote, I actually beg to differ. I don’t believe that tis better to have loved and lost. I would consider it a treat if a man could just once leave me exactly the same way as he found me. No better, and no worse for the wear. I’m sure Tennyson would be in disbelief to learn that when a couple dissolves in this century they can each stalk each other as much as they wish, which leads to one party feeling like they have an active relationship with the other.

If I could forget that I recently had a great time, maybe the following would not occur:

  • Sudden bursts of diarrhea
  • Crushed self-esteem
  • Intense feelings of rage towards men
  • Additional grey hair
  • Binge eating which ties into the diarrhea…sorry : )
  • Frequent trips to the car wash where I can primal scream
  • Rage-full texts and e-mails sent from yours truly, which will now live in cyberspace longer than I will exist on this earth

With that said if you are male and should see me on the island of Oahu, unless you are the most emotionally available person you know, please refrain from approaching me. May God be with you if your male, a jerk and you approach me during a certain five days of the month.


comedy, Culture, Depression

Mixed Eggs and Scrambled Feelings

EGG.Before Top Chef and Chopped there were lesser known cooking competitions that aired a jillion years ago. A short-lived program involved a European Chef and his gorgeous model wife who performed the show from their stunning home. If you were a woman watching this show it was almost impossible to maintain even a low level of self-esteem.

To qualify as a contestant on the show the host asked the cooks to prepare an egg any style. I couldn’t understand why cooking an egg would be a litmus test for chefs and I still don’t. However, what I did learn recently is that for me cooking an egg is symbolic of my life. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here; I’m not talking about renewal or hope. I suffer from depression…eggs remind me of my fucked up life.

My eggs are always free-range, scrambled with tomato and shredded cheese. I drop two small pats of butter into my heated pan and then wait one complete second for the butter to melt. I then hang a fork which I dipped into the raw eggs over the pan so I could test an egg dribble for proper heat. For thirty years the “after dribble” has played out the same and I have ignored signs that a disaster or at least a bad egg awaits.

Instead of cooking, the egg dribble spreads a little and then rests as if mocking me. I wait a full two seconds and dump eggs into pan. Shockingly, I learn that waiting only three seconds for butter to heat is illogical even with the best stove. The heavy shredded cheese stays wherever it landed in the pan while the lighter weight tomato pieces travel within the goo slightly. Thirty years of egg cooking and I have never heard the sizzle that is supposed to happen when egg meets pan. What is it about just waiting for the pan to heat the butter adequately that I can’t do?

My lack of patience and sometimes terminal uniqueness has caused many challenges in my life. I’m not letting the pan-of-life heat up enough, not letting things just happen. In the last year I have:

  • Rushed a relationship, lest the man not be interested if he got to know me better. This of course leads to said man running wildly into woods while screaming.
  • I have lost my shit repeatedly while waiting for returned texts and e-mails from…you can guess who.
  • Ignored reading “how to replace a toilet lid” directions only to buy a stumpy lid for an elongated toilet. Now every time I sit down the lid violently shifts to one side.
  • Experienced hundreds of Mac “Wheel of Deaths” from moving faster than my Mac, which in the end delays anything I’m working on.
  • Finished friends sentences because I just couldn’t stand waiting for them to say the same thing for the million time. In case you haven’t done this to friends, I can tell you first hand, THEY DON’T LIKE IT.

One of the differences between children and adults is the ability to delay gratification. I honestly feel that I delay gratification for so long that I should be considered a martyr. For instance, I wait too long to eat or drink while I’m working and then complain that I have no time for sustenance. I guess I have the least amount of patience when the most amount of feelings are invested. I’m positive if I wait I will be forgotten about. So like an annoying nat, I keep popping back up.

So there you have it…eggs on low heat don’t cook well. Life on impatience doesn’t work.

Anyone else out there rush to wait? Please tell me I’m not the only one…

Culture, Women

Help a Dane!

flagjpgHeard a report on NPR today that I thought was both cute and stupid. Apparently the rate of skin cancer among Danes (those hailing from Denmark and yes I had to look up) is quite high. A public service announcement (psa) has been created in an effort to decrease the risks of cancer for the Danes and will air in sunny vacation destinations such as Greece, Italy and France.

The announcement pleads with residents of the above countries to be especially nice to Danes that don’t appear to know about the damaging rays of the sun. It suggests that residents give the Dane in question some water and maybe get him or her to a shaded location. I have zero doubt that if I was a resident of Greece, Italy or France, and I tried to a help a Dane, he would think I’m trying to mug him as I shuffle off into the darkness with him.

I have always believed in being nice to strangers and of course animals in need. I don’t have a problem with offering a Dane some assistance. However, I walk around with the weight of the world on my shoulders and now the Danish government wants me to care for their vacationers? Seriously? Do they really not know that their pasty white skin will fry in the sun?

How the hell would I identify a Dane, I didn’t even know what country these guys reside in. Why would anyone listen to me? With over twenty years of experience working with dogs, I can’t even get my clients to listen to me let alone a Dane. I spent a week in Florida during my spring break from college and was advised by a resident that I was roasting. Instead of thanking them, I said “Great, I’m hoping to get a tan.”

GAME CHANGER: I watched the psa below and it’s hysterical. I just assumed it would be a cold delivery. I guess this is why I’m not a reporter. I’m a horrible person. I lost the version with the exact translation. The below description isn’t funny at all. However, watch the commercial, you will at least smirk.


Help a Dane

Every year, thousands of Danes travel to sunny destinations on holiday. Unfortunately, many of them return home with a sunburn. Sunburns are painful in the short run and they increase the risk of skin cancer in the long run.

This is an appeal for help.

You can help The Danish Sun Safety Campaign prevent sunburns and deadly skin cancer by reminding the Danes to remember shade, sun hat and sunscreen.

Sign up now to Help a Dane at


comedy, Culture, Love

Follow Me, Like Me, Twat Me, then Kill Me Please


Someone kill me. Seriously…peck me to death with the Twitter icon’s beak, plus me to oblivion with Google Plus’s plus sign that I can’t find anywhere on my keyboard.

Was there a reason why I spent years in therapy learning how to deal with my problems face to face if I was only going to spend my senior-hood dealing with individuals digitally? I could have saved thousands of dollars had I been able to see into the future.

Not only am I tired of e-mailing individuals as opposed to talking to them, I’m miffed that to be successful in almost any field these days means I must have a social network. If I was a cook, the taste of my food wouldn’t matter, but how many people like the pics of my food? If I were a sculptor, the lines I create wouldn’t mean anything if I didn’t have strangers oohing and aahing over a piece of artwork that was meant to be viewed in person?

I’m in complete agreement with all you under thirty-year-olds in that I should get over myself and do what needs to be done in order to strive. However, I’m in my forties and don’t want to lose sleep over any subject matter that is not life threatening, such as gaining likes.

Lest we forget that I’ve spent the entirety of my life trying to unlearn what my parents have taught me. Specifically, that every strangers opinion of me is gospel. Now I’m being told that I have to do the following:

  • Get strangers to like me
  • Get strangers to engage with me
  • Get strangers so enthralled with what I have to say that they then share with others what I have to say?

Most of the times I don’t even like me and the only reason I’m following me is because I don’t have a choice in the matter.

Please don’t let this rant convince you not to like me, love me, want my first-born ( I’m 47…that is likely not humanly possible) or want to make a Jello-mold that resembles my face. Its only been about eight years since social networking has been important. Just give me a bit more time to let it sink in and for the love of God…LIKE ME!


Culture, Depression

Gracias Mr. Trump – I’m Going to Run for President

trumpI’m smart enough to know that I’m not smart. My IQ is likely exceptionally low. When I was younger, I lived in fear that my intelligence could be informally tested at any moment. Maybe I would be at a candy store when a stranger would start asking me which candies would be next in a series.

Get it…Swedish Chef?

What I do know is that my Emotional Quotient (EQ) is quite high. I’ve been thinking about IQ vs EQ a lot in the last six weeks, because our president seems to have a high disdain for them both. I’m not sure which quotient should reign supreme while running the free world.

However, I’ve learned that I might be a better president than I had thought as a result recent faux-pas aka MONUMENTAL FUCK-UPS that our president has committed. I can bet my low IQ’d ass that I would have handled the below situations better than our president:

  • While I’m not good with numbers, if I was shown a photo of two crowds at the same location, I’m certain I could choose the photo which has the largest number of individuals being shown.
  • I would know that if I tell my fans that “big business” is making their lives miserable, I wouldn’t choose my big business friends as cabinet choices.
  • I might stop campaigning if I already had the job.
  • If I was the kind of individual who never treated my spouse well, I might decide I should at least treat him well while in public.
  • If I was afraid that the commercials which would air during the Superbowl would depict me in a bad light, I wouldn’t Tweet that I’m not watching the game because it’s dumb, erase that Tweet and then Retweet that it’s really an action packed thriller of a game.
  • If technology makes me look like an asshole, I wouldn’t employ it.
  • I would recognize that if I’m not a comedienne I should refrain from joke telling or I would tell jokes in front of only those who are paid to laugh at them.
  • When I make a mistake I would cop to it and possibly stop passing the buck.
  • If I’m at a golf course that I run asking patrons if they would like to join me while I interview possible cabinet picks, I might be more embarrassed of that fact then how that fact got out there.
  • I might recognize the simple theory of relativity. Not all people are all one thing. Some reporters are bad and some are good. I might be concerned if I said things like “fake news” that the public might believe I viewed other situations as all good or all bad such as the integrity of Mexicans, Jews, Blacks, etc.
  • I would stop making faces, because I’m being filmed.
  • If I didn’t want it to look like I had my priorities wrong I might refrain from Tweeting at 10:20 am if my daily briefing was at 10:00 am.

To allay any fears out there, I’m not running. : )







Trump as a Tenth Grader

trumpSince President Trump fancies acting like a tenth grader, I was compelled to come up with a list of what I remember were called “burns.” I wouldn’t be surprised if any of these were to appear in his Twitter account.

  • I know you are, but what am I?
  • Whoever smelt it dealt it.
  • Last one in is a rotten egg.
  • Say it, don’t spray it.
  • See ya – wouldn’t want to be ya!
  • I’m last because the best is always last.
  • There’s the peace sign over another individuals head, which today would be considered a photo-bomb.
  • Jinx buy me a beer. This was said when two people say the same thing at the same time.
  • I got shotgun!
  • The burn I found most annoying. The burn I found most annoying. Is when a kid. Is when a kid. Repeats everything you say. Repeats everything you say.


Any other burns you can come up with? Curse words both acceptable and appreciated.



#seventies burns